


if i held my breath long enough

by cool lesbian (falloutblink182)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Genderswap, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Wives, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, author is an angry dyke, but that is essentially what they are, i interpreted that to mean that they are massive dykes, i refuse to tag with 'useless lesbians' bc i think thats a shitty joke, is it really a genderswap if they're two genderless celestial beings???, listen i have issues this is me airing them out okay, neil gaiman said theyre genderless entities who dont use human labels for sexuality, such is the beauty of literature, theres a lot of female rage in this, they present as women, they'll get together eventually but like......the pining........, who is possibly projecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-08-13 14:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20175499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falloutblink182/pseuds/cool%20lesbian
Summary: Most books on demons will tell you that female demons are succubi, tempting men to evil through their sinful sexuality.This is because most books on demons are written by men.





	1. in the beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Crawly instead of Crowley was physically painful. Also it makes sense that the one time I don't use they/them pronouns for Crowley I'm using she/her instead lmao.

_I figured if I held my breath long enough and sucked my stomach up under my ribs far enough and powdered my face pale enough and gave myself enough razor burns and plucked the hairs between my eyebrows until my eyes watered and painted my nails girly enough and squeezed my jeans on tight enough and demolished my natural beauty enough I'd be pretty enough _ \- emily curtis, _in the absence of the sun_

* * *

_The Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being…_

_…And the Lord God commanded the man, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.” …_

_…Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man._

And the Lord God didn’t tell this woman jack-shit.

But Adam told Eve not to eat from the tree regardless, so she kept her distance. She was a helper – she existed to serve, to obey. It was not her place to ask questions or to step out of line. She was created from Adam’s rib; she should be grateful.

So, she helped, she served, she obeyed. Every frustration, every question she had was buried down deep inside of her. She let Adam take whatever he wanted from her.

_You are made from my rib, woman. You are the bone of my bones, the flesh of my flesh. Be grateful. _

She would smile and she would bite her tongue, and she would spend her days with the animals that the Lord had named. She watched the sun reflect off of the iridescent scales of the fish in the river, watched with curiosity as the bears swooped the beautiful fish up in their claws. She sat for hours watching the different varieties of birds, with brightly coloured feathers, soar above Eden – looping, gliding, going wherever they feel, over the towering garden walls into the great unknown and back again.

Eve didn’t envy them, she told herself. She was happy here.

Perhaps if she said it often enough, it would become the truth.

One day she met a serpent. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anything special about this particular serpent, but Eve soon found out that this reptile was far more talkative than any of the other creatures that resided in Eden. She didn’t mind – Adam, to be completely honest, was a bit of a bore, so she was grateful to have somebody else to converse with.

_Tell me, Eve… _The serpent hissed. The reptile in question was curled around Eve’s shoulders, basking in the bright sun. _Did God _really _sssay “You mussst not eat from any tree in the garden”? _

Eve ran a finger down the snake’s scaly spine. “No, not quite – _Adam _said that we can eat from any tree, except for that one.” She gestured towards the tree of knowledge, that was fuller and greater than any other tree in the garden. It grew in the centre of everything else, and no matter where you stood in the garden it was always at least partially visible.

_What happensss if you do? _

“Well, we die, apparently.”

The serpent hissed a hiss that sounded remarkably similar to a scoff. “_Apparently”? Did the Lord tell you thisss?_

Eve ducked her head sheepishly. “No, not exactly. The Lord has never spoken to _me, _only to Adam.” She sighed. “Everything I know is what he has told me.”

The serpent twisted around so that its yellow eyes stared straight into Eve’s green ones.

_Not everything. _It hissed. _There are thingsss you know that the man doesss not. _

Eve was about to argue, but with a moment of thought she realised the serpent was right. There were things that Adam hadn’t taught her, things he didn’t know – things that she had learnt from the garden and taught her herself, about the animals and about the plants, and about nature and about life. Sure, Adam knew the sound of God’s voice, but she knew the sound of the babbling brook where the new-born deer drank. She knew the sound of her heart racing as she flew through the trees on the back of a horse with a chestnut-coloured coat.

_The Lord forbade Adam from eating from the tree of knowledge, _hissed the serpent. _The Lord never forbade _you_ from doing ssso. _

Eve blinked at the serpent.

“Are you saying that I should eat from it?”

The serpent flicked out it’s tongue.

_I’m sssaying you should not let the man dictate your decisssionsss, _The snake settled more comfortably around Eve’s shoulders. _If it helpsss, I promissse you won’t die if you eat the fruit. _

This startled a chuckle out of Eve. “Okay,” she said. “What harm could it do?”

* * *

Eve walked towards thetree, the serpent still resting on her shoulders. With a deep breath, she reached up and quickly plucked one of the tree’s ripe fruits from a branch. The serpent hissed encouragingly.

“What are you _doing?_” Adam’s voice was nothing louder than a whisper, but was so harsh in tone it made Eve flinch. “That’s _forbidden.”_

“For you.”

“For _both of us.”_

Eve sighed. And, if the serpent could have rolled its eyes, it would have done. Eve was…. She was _tired. _She was tired of Eden and it’s great, looming walls that surrounded it. She was tired of only having Adam for company – Adam, who projected his own limitations on to her, who took and took but never listened, who never stopped reminding her that she was made from _his _rib, that she _belonged _to him. She was tired of being told what she could and couldn’t do, say, eat. She was tired of this pregnancy – this lifeform that she was carrying had her undying love but my word, it took a lot of her energy. She was _tired. _

So, without another word, and before she could chicken out, Eve took a bite of the fruit.

It was all rather anticlimactic really – the snake hissed in support and Adam spluttered in panic, but Eve ignored them both as she chewed. It tasted alright. No better than any other fruit in the garden, but not worse either.

_How do you feel? _hissed the snake.

“The same as I have always felt.” Eve replied. “Adam, will you not try some?” She held out the rest of the fruit to him. He stepped forward hesitantly.

“The Lord prohibited us from tasting it.” he said. “He told me we should die if we were to disobey.” Eve didn’t point out Adam’s lie – that there was no _us _or _we _when He declared the fruit to be forbidden. Only Adam existed at that time. Instead, she just spread out her arms and said:

“And yet, here I stand: not dead! Even after having tasted this fruit.”

Adam couldn’t argue with that. With some trepidation, he took the fruit from Eve, and ate the whole thing (minus, of course, the single bite Eve had eaten herself). The effect on Adam was almost instantaneous – he felt a rush of _something _rush through him, and whatever it was it gave him a headache that throbbed just enough to make him clench his eyes shut. When he opened them, it was not Eve’s expression of concern that caught his eye but rather the bareness of her body – how could she walk around like that? With her chest and her… her _private parts _on show for anyone to see – does she not have any shame?

“Eve! You’re naked!” Adam hissed. 

Eve looked down at her body, then at Adam’s. Adam promptly covered his penis with his hands, and Eve rolled her eyes.

“Yes, well spotted.”

Adam narrows his eyes, before looking around frantically. “We must clothe ourselves, so that we might have dignity.”

Eve did not understand the urgency – they had been naked all this time, why was it only now a problem? Still, she was a wife. She was to do what her husband said. Therefore she and Adam fashioned makeshift clothes out of striking green fig leaves that itched her thighs.

“Cover your chest as well,” demanded Adam.

“Will you cover yours?” Asked Eve.

“No.” Adam shook his head. Eve had many questions she wished to ask about this hypocrisy, but she bit her tongue and covered her chest, concealed her body as shame began to wash over her.

When the Lord arrived, He was furious.

“The serpent – it deceived Eve!” cried Adam in desperation. He tore the serpent away from Eve’s body and tossed it away from them. But despite Adam's excuses, the Lord still punished them.

He punished Adam with painful toil, the serpent with crawling on its belly, and Eve’s punishment was not the pains of childbirth as many believe, (she had always known that this baby she had no choice but to carry would bring her pain, but she believed the life it would bring to be worth it) but was that her husband would rule over her.

But she was already used to that.

* * *

So, Eve and Adam were banished from the Garden of Eden. The angel of the Eastern Gate stood on the wall and watched them leave, frowning at the clouds that were gathering overhead.

“I’m sorry,” the angel said politely. “What was it you were saying?”

“I _said,_ that one went down like a lead balloon.” said the serpent. The serpent’s name was Crawly, but she was thinking of changing it.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so.” the angel, whose name was Aziraphale, said nervously.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about, to be honest,” Crawly shook out her wings. “What’s so bad about knowing stuff?”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “It must be bad,” she reasoned, “Otherwise _you _wouldn’t have been involved.”

Crawly grinned.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale continued. “It’s best not to speculate – You can’t second-guess ineffability, I always say. If you do Wrong when you’re told to do Right, you deserve, um, to be punished.” They sat in silence, watching the first raindrops fall down.

Eventually Crawly spoke up, looking at Aziraphale with curious yellow eyes. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

The angel flushes. “Um,” she said, looking rather guilty.

“You did, didn’t you? It was flaming like anything!” Crawly goaded, humour in her voice.

“Er, well-”

“It looked _mighty _impressive, I thought.”

“Well, I-”

“Lost it already, have you?”

Aziraphale mumbled something unintelligible.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” said Crawly, craning her head closer to the angel.

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale spurted out, and instantly slapped a hand over her mouth. Crawly’s joy was palpable.

“You _what?” _Crawly’s eyes were wide and her mouth hung open.

Aziraphale squirmed. “I _had _to, they looked so cold, and she’s _expecting,_” the angel rubbed her hands together distractedly. “and not to mention the vicious animals and the _storm,_ oh my, so I just figured, where’s the harm, take the sword – don’t bother to thank me – and do yourself a favour and don’t let the sun go down on you here.” She gave Crawly a worried grin.

“That was the best course, don’t you think?”

“You’re an angel,” Crawly drawled sarcastically. “I don’t think it’s actually possible for you to do evil.”

Aziraphale didn’t notice the sarcastic tone and sighed in relief. “Oh, I do hope so. I really do hope so.”

They watched the rain for a while. It was still fairly light, and it was making Aziraphale’s blonde curls go frizzy.

“Funny thing is,” Crawly said after a while. “I keep wondering whether the whole forbidden fruit thing wasn’t the right thing to do. A demon can get in real trouble, doing the right thing.” She nudged the angel with a bony elbow. “Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one?”

Aziraphale spluttered for a bit. “No! No, that wouldn’t be funny at all.”

Crawly looked up at the rain, feeling it run down her face.

“No,” she said, sobering up. “No, I suppose not.”


	2. we are always living in the present tense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of this is beta'd by the way so if u spot any typos pls point them out to me alsoif i slip up and use he/him pronouns for our ineffable dumbasses please tell me!!

**3004 B.C. – Mesopotamia.**

“Not the kids. You can’t kill kids.” Crawly says, outrage in her voice. Aziraphale just nods, and tries not to look at Crawly’s horrified expression.

“That’s more the kind of thing you would expect my lot to do.”

“It’ll be worth it, though,” Aziraphale says, to convince herself more than anything else. “When its over, the Almighty will put up a new thing called a _rain-bow, _as a promise not to, um, drown anyone again.”

Crawly raises an eyebrow. “How kind.”

She watches a mother who cannot be much older than a child herself desperately try and hush her wailing baby. Discretely, Crawly snaps her fingers and the baby calms down, the mother sighing in relief. She catches Aziraphale watching her.

“Oh, shut up.” She snaps at the angel. Aziraphale says nothing in return, just mimes zipping her lips shut, but she can’t quite conceal the small smile that appears on her face.

Later on, Aziraphale isn’t all that shocked to discover Crawly in the hold of the ship, curled around several children and speaking to them in hushed, reassuring tones. Many of them are crying, mourning the losses of their parents and their families. They cling to Crawly like a lifeboat.

When the demon spots Aziraphale, determination fills her eyes. She clutches the baby she is holding tighter to her chest.

“If you try to make me abandon them,” she says, quiet but steady. “I will fight you.”

Aziraphale swallows down the lump in her throat.

“I would never. I swear it.”

Crawly assesses her for a moment, gaze unblinking, before nodding. She passes the baby over to Aziraphale, who takes him not without some trepidation.

“He’s sick.” Crawly tells her. “I can’t – I don’t know how to heal him. You’re better at that stuff.” She turns back to the other children before Aziraphale can respond.

Aziraphale spends her time healing the sick infants and performing minor miracles here and there to ensure there is always plenty of food. Crawly never says thank you, but she doesn’t need to. The gratitude in her eyes says it all.

Crawly listens to the girls who have stories about horrid men, men who they are glad to hear have drowned, and she reassures them that their relief in the demise of these men does not make the girls bad. She teaches the children self-defence, how just because they are little does not mean that they are helpless. She teaches them about bodily autonomy, and about what is now known as _consent. _Aziraphale wonders if Heaven would approve of these lessons.

She decides that she doesn’t really care if they don’t.

**33 A.D. – Golgotha.**

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly.” Aziraphale rubs her hands together anxiously.

“Oh, I’ve changed it.”

“Changed what?” Aziraphale wrinkles her nose in confusion.

“My name. ‘Crawly’ wasn’t really doing it for me, it’s a bit too,” the demon previously known as Crawly waves her hands in a vague gesture. “squirming-at-your-feet-ish.”

Aziraphale raises her eyebrows. “Well, you _were _a snake.” She points out. “So, what is it now? Lilith? Delilah?”

“Crowley.”

“Hmm.”

They stand in silence for a bit. Crowley pushes down the urge to ask Aziraphale what she thinks of her new name. She doesn’t need her approval, she _doesn’t, _it just – it would be nice.

“Did you ever meet him?” Aziraphale’s voice shakes Crowley out of her thoughts. The angel gestures towards the unfortunate man being dragged towards the cross.

“Oh, yes.” Crowley had met him. She quite liked him – he was a bit of a rebel, always stirring the pot with his revolutionary ideas such as “help those in need” and “give to the poor”. He was always respectful, and she quite liked the ragtag bunch of prostitutes and madwomen that seemed to accompany him wherever he went. Although she wasn’t quite a woman herself, she was treated like one, and she was all too aware of how harshly a woman who dared to step out of line could be treated. It was rare to find a man in this world who treated women as his equals, worthy of respect and dignity. “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

Aziraphale catches the undercurrent of sadness that runs through Crowley’s words. “That was very kind of you, my dear.” She ignores the glare Crowley shoots her way.

The sound of soldiers hammering nails into the cross echoes through the air, making both Aziraphale and Crowley wince. The man cries out in anguish, and Aziraphale feels something settle heavy in her heart.

“What was it that he said that got everybody so upset?” Crowley looks around at the crowd who had gathered to watch. Aziraphale sighs.

“Be kind to each other.”

“Ah yes,” Crowley says. “That’ll do it.”

**1601 – The Globe Theatre, London. **

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here,” Crowley glides into the theatre, skirts flowing behind her. “Blend in with the crowds.” She looks around at the rather empty building, then at Aziraphale’s sheepish expression. The angel’s curls have grown longer since the last time they met, and she has them pinned in a fancy style away from her face.

Crowley absolutely does _not _want to tell her that she looks pretty, that would be ridiculous, come on now.

“This isn’t one of his gloomy ones, is it?” She groans dramatically. “Ugh, no wonder nobody is here.” In the gloomy ones the women seemed to play no role except to suffer some terrible tragic death, she found. Watching Juliet stab herself over a man and Lavinia’s terrible fate in _Titus Andronicus _made her uncomfortable in a way she didn’t wish to examine. She much preferred the comedies, with headstrong women like Beatrice and Hermia, who don’t have to suffer to be of value.

The angel hushes her as the playwright himself bustles over. “Prithee, fair ladies,” he says, causing Crowley to scoff and Aziraphale to blush faintly. “Might I request a small favour? Could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?”

“You mean, like when the ghost of his father came on stage, and I said, “He’s behind you!”?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley internally questions all that is Holy and all that is Satanic, _why _make the one thing that she can’t have _so goddamn cute?_

“Yes! That was jolly helpful,” says Shakespeare. “It made everyone on stage feel… appreciated.” Aziraphale does that smile-and-wiggle thing she does when she’s proud, and Crowley melts a little bit.

“Master Burbage, speak the lines trippingly!”

The young actor grits his teeth. “I am _wasting my time _up here!” he spits out. Aziraphale is quick to shake her head.

“Oh, no, you’re very good, young man!” She reassures. “I love all the…” she falters, “Talking.”

Burbage steps forward. “And what about your friend? What does she think?”

“Oh, she’s not my friend. We – We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.”

Crowley looks on with an amused expression. “I think,” she says. “that you should get on with the play.” Her drawl carries just enough humour to make Burbage mumble something no doubt rather rude about her under his breath, but Crowley doesn’t care.

Burbage starts again.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question.” His voice carries through the open-roofed building.

“To be!” Aziraphale exclaims. “I mean, not to be! Come on, Hamlet! Buck up!” She grins at Crowley, so full of excitement that Crowley can’t help but smile fondly back.

Burbage continues soliloquizing as Aziraphale speaks quietly to Crowley. “He’s very good, isn’t he?” she says, smile never leaving her face. Crowley stares at the stage through her dark glasses.

“Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety.” She notices Shakespeare mumble something, watches him out of the corner of her eye as he takes out a bit of parchment and a quill. She doesn’t say anything. It would not be the first time a man has reaped the rewards of seeds sown by a woman.

The angel huffs. “What do you want, Crowley?” she says, and Crowley gasps in mock offence.

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?” She leans in close, so close that Aziraphale can feel the demon’s breath on her skin. Aziraphale squirms away, ignoring Crowley’s sharp grin.

“You are up to no good.” She says pointedly.

Crowley scoffs. “Obviously.” She discretely eyes up a man in the very sparse audience who has been very obviously eyeing up Aziraphale hungrily for at least the amount of time Crowley has been there. The glare she shoots his way goes unseen, thanks to her sunglasses, so she decides to keep him in mind, just in case.

“You’re up to good, I take it?” She circles Aziraphale, blocking the angel from the man’s sights temporarily. “Lots of _good deeds?”_

“No rest for the – well, good. I have to be in Edinburgh by the end of the week. Miracles to perform, and all that.”

Crowley hums. “You know, Aziraphale,” she begins. “I’m meant to be heading down to Edinburgh too. Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle.”

Aziraphale knows where this is going. She prepares herself, gets ready to argue.

“It’s a bit of a wasted effort – both of us going, huh?” Crowley flicks her hair over her shoulder.

“You cannot actually be suggesting – what I infer that you’re – _implying.” _Aziraphale smooths her hands down the front of her dress. Her eyes flicker around nervously, as though all of the Heavenly Host will descend right this instant for even _considering _such a thing.

“Which is…?” Crowley urges.

Aziraphale narrows her eyes at the demon. “That – that just one of us goes, and does both the blessing and the temptation.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Well,” she says. “We’ve done it before.”

Aziraphale still looks hesitant.

“Our respective offices don’t care how each task gets done. All they care about is crossing it off the list.”

“But if Hell finds out – they won’t just be angry. They’ll _destroy _you.” Crowley is taken aback for a moment, by the fear in Aziraphale’s eyes – not for her own safety, but for _Crowley’s. _

“Oh, Angel, nobody ever has to know.” She holds up a coin. “Toss ya for Edinburgh.”

Aziraphale bites her lip. “Fine. Heads.”

Crowley flips the coin.

“Tails. Have fun in Scotland.” She puts on a terrible imitation of a Scottish accent, making Aziraphale roll her eyes.

_“It’s been like this every performance, Juliet. A complete dud. It would take a miracle to get anyone to come and see ‘Hamlet’_._”_

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, her blue eyes wide and hopeful. Crowley sighs, and wonders when the exact moment was when she became completely whipped for this angel who she’s not even supposed to _like. _

“Fine, fine, I’ll do that one, my treat.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, why not.” She begins to walk away. “I still prefer the funny ones!”

Aziraphale grins as she pops another grape in her mouth.

(Crowley doesn’t get the opportunity to see the _Hamlet _in full until a few years later. When she does, she stands by her original view. She _really _doesn’t like the gloomy ones. He wonders if old Billy Shakespeare ever asked for a female perspective on any of his works. Ophelia and Gertrude deserved better stories – why must their entire lives revolve around men? Why must a man be the only thing keeping Ophelia from her watery grave?

She endeavours to discover more female playwrights when she has the time, and help them reach the same levels of fame as Shakespeare himself.).

**1793 – Paris.**

Aziraphale didn’t mean to get herself in these predicaments. They just _happened._ Really, all she wanted was some decent crepes, and now she found herself in a dusty, gloomy cell with her hands and ankles cuffed. Something moved in the corner, and she squirmed as a rat appeared and ran across the room.

Sure, she was supposed to love all of God’s creatures. That didn’t mean she had to _like _them.

She shivered at the chill that was ever present in the small room. She wasn’t scared, exactly, but she was rather annoyed. Being inconveniently discorporated would be, well, _inconvenient. _

She listened to the wet slice of the guillotine outside, flinching at the cheering and whooping of the crowd. She loved humans, generally, but she never quite stopped being surprised at just quite how barbaric they could be.

A guard enters, keys rattling and voice full of grandeur. “Listen to that,” he says. “The fall of the guillotine blade. Isn’t it terrible?” He puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, stands a bit too close for Aziraphale to be comfortable with.

“Yes! Yes, cutting off that poor woman’s head – terrible!” Aziraphale feels hope rise up in her chest, but it is squashed back down almost as suddenly as it appeared.

“It is Pierre,” says the guard. “An amateur. Always let’s go of the rope too soon.” He leans in closer, and Aziraphale can smell his breath. She wrinkles her nose.

The guard goes on: “You are lucky that it is I, Jean-Claude, who will remove your beautiful traitorous head from your shoulders.” He trails a hand down Aziraphale’s hair. She shrugs him off with a glare.

“Look. This is all a terrible mistake, I don’t think you understand – it would be a dreadful mistake, discorporating me. Oh, it’ll be a complete nightmare.” The crowd cheers again, and Aziraphale is too busy being disgusted with _everything _to notice time stopping. “Animals.” She grumbles under her breath.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel, only humans do that.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale lights up, turning around to face her demonic acquaintance. “Oh, good Lord.”

Crowley is sprawled amongst the layers and layers of fabric she wears, a black lace parasol hooked over her shoulder. She twirls it, once, twice, three times, before collapsing it and lying it on the floor.

“I thought you were opening a bookshop,” she asks.

“Well, I was.” Aziraphale holds her chin up defensively. “I got peckish.”

Crowley raises her eyebrows in exasperation. “’Peckish’?”

“Well, if you must know, it was the crepes. You can’t get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche.”

“So, you just nipped across the channel, during a revolution, because you fancied a nibble,” Crowley looks Aziraphale up and down, who in turn feels the tips of her ears go red. “Dressed like that?”

“I have standards!” She leans forwards conspiratorially. “I heard they were getting a bit carried away over here but—”

“Yeah, this is not getting carried away. This is cutting off lots of people’s heads very efficiently with a big head cutting machine. Why don’t you just perform another miracle and go home?” Crowley’s brow furrows confusedly.

Aziraphale looks down. “I was reprimanded last month. Said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles! Got a very strongly worded note from Gabriel.”

“Well then,” Crowley says lowly, “You’re lucky I was in the area.”

“I suppose I am.”

**1862 – St James Park, London. **

“I need a favour.” Crowley produced a pin from nowhere and fastened it amongst the piles of red curls and other pins on her head. She liked fancy hairstyles as much as the next genderless-demon-masquerading-as-a-woman-on-earth, but she did wish fashion would hurry up and move on to the point where it was stylish to wear one’s hair loose again.

“We already have the agreement, Crowley.” Aziraphale is wearing her hair loose, but she has never felt the need to be up-to-date on the latest trends. _She doesn’t need to, _Crowley thinks, somewhat bitterly. _She’s beautiful enough as she is. _

“This is something else. For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

Aziraphale stops throwing bread at the ducks for a moment. “I like pears.”

At that moment, a gentleman walking along with his acquaintances chooses to let out a low whistle as they pass Aziraphale and Crowley, taking a good long look at Aziraphale’s cleavage and making a lewd comment (Crowley much preferred the high-neck, lace-up corsets that were also fashionable at the time). Him and his friends snicker, and the two celestial entities glare in their direction. Suddenly the men all found themselves with an unfortunate case of diarrhoea, and, oh _dear, _the nearest restrooms were miles away!

Crowley tries to get back on track. “If it all goes wrong,” she soldiers on. “I want insurance.”

“What?”

“I wrote it down. Walls have ears.” Under her glasses, Crowley’s eyes flick about the park, looking for any potential threats. “Well, not walls. Trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? They must do, that’s how they hear other ducks.”

Aziraphale unfolds the paper that Crowley passes to her, and gasps. “Out of the question!”

“Why not?”

“It would – why, my dear, it would _destroy you._ I am not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice shakes, shocked that Crowley would think she would even consider doing something like this.

Crowley hisses. “That isn’t what I want it for, angel. Just insurance.”

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley.” If she sounds ever so slightly choked up, then Crowley doesn’t notice. “Do you know what trouble I’d be in if… if they knew I’d been fraternising? It’s completely out of the question.”

“Fraternising?” Crowley spits out.

“Or whatever you wish to call it,” Aziraphale waves off. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“I have lots of other people to _fraternise _with, angel.” Crowley’s voice is thick with venom, in a way that Aziraphale is rather unfamiliar with.

Aziraphale turns away. “Of course you do,” she throws over her shoulder.

“I don’t need you.”

“Well, the feeling is mutual, obviously!” Aziraphale crumples up the note and throws it in the pond, storming away. Crowley listens to the _click clack_ of her heels on the pavement as she leaves, biting down her anger.

“_Obviously.” _She mimics, watching as the paper sets aflame.

**1941 – London. **

Aziraphale looks at the three guns pointed at her in shock. “You can’t kill me!” she exclaims, “There’ll be so much paperwork.”

Again, Aziraphale doesn’t know how she always ends up in the predicaments. She really did not mean to be tricked and cornered by Nazi’s who have now got possession of her _books, _oh, her books! She sighs, already mourning the loss of them, when suddenly she and the Nazi’s are distracted by a noise coming from the entrance of the church.

A figure emerges from the shadows, hopping about strangely and hissing as if in pain.

“Ow, shit, ow, sorry, consecrated ground, it’s like being at the beach in bare feet.” There in the aisle is Crowley, hopping around awkwardly in her tailored suit and sleek hat. Her hair was flowing smooth and straight down her back.

“_What are you doing here!” _Aziraphale hisses, ignoring (for now) the weird way Crowley is walking.

She continues to jig about. “Saving you from getting into trouble,” she replies, and Aziraphale feels something warm flutter in her stomach at the thought of Crowley coming to her aid.

Still, appearances had to be maintained. “Of course. I should have known that this was your doing.”

“What? No! These are just a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies, running aimlessly around England. Nothing to do with me.” Crowley splutters, leaning on a pew as she kicks up her feet.

“Miss Antonia J Crowley. Your reputation precedes you.” says one of the spies. Aziraphale looks at Crowley curiously.

“Antonia?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I – I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll get used to it. What does the J stand for?”

“Uh, it’s just a J, really.”

The Nazi who spoke clears his throat. “What a shame that you two must die.”

Aziraphale can’t see Crowley’s eyes, but knows she’s rolling them underneath her glasses. She ducks her head to hide a smile, suddenly glad that their little argument back in 1862 didn’t change anything between them, that she can still rely on the demon to come rushing to her aid at the last minute with ridiculous distractions and extravagant escape schemes.

So, she performs the miracle to save their lives, and after the whole business is dealt with, the two stand in the rubble of the church. Aziraphale notices a tear on her skirt that she miracles away as Crowley brushes dust from the shoulders of her jacket.

“That was very kind of you, my dear.” Aziraphale picks a bit of shrapnel from her hair.

Crowley, meanwhile, is cleaning her sunglasses on the hem of her suit jacket. “Shut up.”

“Well, it was.” She steps over the remains of the church carefully.

“Oh!” she suddenly cries out, “the books, I forgot all about the books, oh—”

Crowley steps forward and presses a bag into her hand. “Little demonic miracle of my own.”

She walks away before Aziraphale can respond, missing the way she looks at her with complete and utter adoration.

“Lift home?”

**1967 – Soho, London. **

There are a lot of things Crowley enjoys about humanity. Food – that’s more Aziraphale’s pleasure, but classic cars, rock music, and fashion are Crowley’s. She absolutely _adores _fashion, the way its evolved over time and the way it can be used as a grand form of self-expression. Fashion, she sometimes thinks, is the only thing that makes it all worthwhile.

Being alive for as long as she has means that she has seen plenty of fashion trends rise and fall. Some eras have had better styles than others – the ruffles were decidedly not her thing, but the excessively fancy hats topped with flowers very much _were. _The 60’s, Crowley had decided, was one of her favourite eras yet. There were so many sub-cultures of fashion to explore – hippies, beatniks, mods, and rockers all had their own distinct styles that Crowley adored. Right now, she was currently adopting the style of the mods, wearing a black miniskirt and a sleeveless turtleneck jumper, with knee-high black heeled boots. Her red hair was styled into a sleek chin-length bob, with a perfect fringe that was never out of place.

Currently, she was sat in a corner table of a bustling pub in Soho. Her long legs were not crossed delicately under the table, instead, her knees pointed out in opposing directions. She had noticed some time in the past century how much space men took when they sat, and she was determined to reclaim some of that space – tiny skirts be damned. She pushed her round, oversized sunglasses further up her nose as she spoke to those who were sat with her.

She’s planning a heist – not to steal money, or jewels, or priceless art, but to steal holy water.

Her plan is well thought out – a little excessive, perhaps, and certainly theatrical, but that’s her style. As extra as it is, it is flawless and certain to go off without a hitch. She leaves the bar with a spring in her step, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. Outside the bar, she leans against the wall and lights up a cigarette. She doesn’t quite understand the hype around smoking, but she thinks it makes her look cool, and she can see a couple men eyeing her up as she takes a drag. She wiggles her fingers in their direction. What she doesn’t realise is that Shadwell, one of her accomplices, has followed her outside.

She groans internally. He was good at what she needed him for, but dear Satan, was he weird. Asking her all sorts of bizarre questions about whether witchcraft was involved in this heist.

“Miss C,” he says somewhat desperately. “I just wanted to say – if you ever need any assistance in anything, anything at all – the Witchfinder Army is here to help.” He offers a business card from his pocket, and Crowley takes it gingerly.

“Thanks,” she drawls. “Though I hardly think that’ll be necessary.”

Shadwell rubs the back of his neck. “Well, uh, that’s my number, written there… so if you, I dunno, need me for anything else –” he trails off.

Crowley has to fight back a laugh. She may be a demon, but she’s not about to be _cruel _to this poor man who just wants a date. He’s being respectful enough, and it’s not his fault that she’s not at all interested in the _slightest._ She can hear the men she waved at sniggering at Shadwell’s attempts, so she just smiles.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She slips the card into her back pocket, and leans forward to kiss Shadwell’s cheek. “See you around.”

Shadwell stares, shell-shocked, as she saunters away back to her beloved Bentley. Eventually Shadwell shakes himself back to reality and goes back into the bar.

Crowley settles into her Bentley, twisting to reapply her lipstick in the rear-view mirror. She jumps as she realises that she isn’t alone in the car.

“_Jes- _Satan, Aziraphale, you scared the shit out of me.” Where she had been startled, she had messed up her lipstick, drawing a red line down her chin. She swore under her breath, digging around in her bag for make-up wipes but Aziraphale snaps her fingers and the mess is gone.

“I apologise for startling you,” Aziraphale says, her voice soft. She’s wearing trousers, a rare occurrence – they have a check print which clashes terribly with the psychedelic pattern of her thick knitted jumper, and her blonde curls are pulled back into a neat ponytail. “But I need to talk to you.”

Crowley waves her hand in a _go on_ gesture, and Aziraphale takes a breath.

“I hear – you’ve been planning a heist, of sorts.”

“Perhaps. What’s it to you?”

“What’s it to – _Crowley, _my dear girl, it’s far too dangerous! You’re planning to steal _Holy Water, _that won’t just kill your body – it will destroy you completely!” she can’t quite keep the desperation out of her voice, and Crowley flinches slightly when the angel rests a hand on hers.

Crowley yanks her hand away. “You told me what you think,” she says bitterly, “105 years ago.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind. But I can’t have you risking your life.” _You’re too important to me. _Aziraphale doesn’t say. _You’re the only thing that’s important to me._

She hopes Crowley can see it in her eyes.

She reaches down, and picks up a tartan-patterned flask. “Call off the heist.”

Crowley looks at the flask, then at Aziraphale.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

Crowley reaches for the flash hesitantly, careful not to touch Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured fingers.

“It’s the real thing?”

“The holiest.”

“Should I… say thank you?”

“Better not.”

Crowley nods, looks down at the flask. When she looks over to Aziraphale, she’s staring out the window, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth nervously.

“Can I drop you anywhere?” _Stay with me, just for tonight._

Aziraphale shakes herself out of her thoughts. “No, thank you.”

Crowley pouts.

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed, dear girl.” Aziraphale says. “Maybe one day we could – go for a picnic! Or dine at the Ritz!”

Crowley thinks, _it’s now or never. _She has to say something, _anything, _to make Aziraphale stay.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you wanna go.” _I’ll let you take the lead. I’m ready, we can go at whatever pace you choose. _

Aziraphale can’t see Crowley’s eyes, but she’s used to that. She’s learnt to read Crowley’s feelings in the curves of her mouth, in the lines of her cheeks, in the arch of her brow. She doesn’t need to see her eyes to know that she’s pleading, that she’s offering her heart up on a silver platter and saying _take it! take it! take it!_

But Aziraphale _can’t. _She’s not ready.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” And with that, she leaves the Bentley, and she leaves Crowley to think about what on earth that could mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good omens has taken over my entire life - i swear my adhd has latched onto it like a limpet and it refuses to let go until i've projected onto these characters so much i get sick of them.


	3. my sanctuary (you're holy to me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the church scene - Aziraphale and Crowley go back to the bookshop, where Aziraphale takes care of Crowley('s feet).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes in the end notes.

Crowley drives back to the bookshop at her usual speed, and Aziraphale clutches onto the door handle as usual. If she (Crowley, that is) miracles the Bentley so that she doesn’t have to press her injured feet to the pedals in order to drive, well, that’s between her and the car only.

(And, of course, Aziraphale, who noticed Crowley limp to the car and wince in pain with every step, and even through her fear of the speed they were going at noticed how Crowley wasn’t actually doing any driving).

They reach Aziraphale’s shop in no time, thanks to Crowley’s driving, and the driver in question leans on her steering wheel and forces a smile. “Here you are. Home sweet home.”

“Oh, yes, thank you my dear,” Aziraphale clutches the bag of rescued books tightly to her chest and makes no move to leave.

“Angel?”

“Won’t you come in?” Aziraphale asks, voice soft and quiet. “I have a lovely bottle of scotch that was gifted to me some time in the last century, or I’m sure I have plenty of wine, and, well, to be quite honest I’d like to look at your—” she trails off, not quite sure if she’s allowed to show that level of concern yet. _Your feet! _She wants to say. _Your poor feet, let me take care of them. Let me take care of you._

Crowley thinks of coming up with some excuse, of going back to her flat and yelling at her plants, spending the night alone and in pain. She finds that actually, she really doesn’t want to do that.

“Okay, angel.” she smiles, a real smile this time. “I’ll come in for a nightcap.”

The two of them make their way out of the Bentley and across the road to the shop. Crowley walks slower, her usual saunter replaced with a painful looking limp. Aziraphale knows better than to comment on it though, so she decides instead to link her arm with Crowley’s, the way she has walked around gardens with her other female friends in the past. And Crowley – well, she sees straight through Aziraphale’s not-so-subtle attempt to help her walk more comfortably, but she is touched by it, and it _helps,_ so she doesn’t say anything.

When they get in, Crowley immediately flops down on the sofa, sighing in relief as the weight is taken off her feet. Aziraphale sends her a worried glance before bustling into the kitchen to get a bottle of vintage scotch and a couple of tumblers. When she returns, Crowley has taken off her glasses and placed them on the coffee table. Her eyes are closed, and she is lying more than sitting on the plush tartan couch – her legs are swung over the arm of the seat so that her feet are suspended in the air and her breaths are deep and shallow. She holds her hat to her chest, knuckles white with how hard she’s gripping it.

Aziraphale sets the glasses down on some coasters and pours some of the booze into both. At the sound of liquid being poured, Crowley’s eyes flutter open and she sits up, takes a glass.

“Cheers,” she mutters under her breath, and downs the whole thing in one go.

Aziraphale blinks.

“Good Lord, Crowley, are you—”

“I’m _fine.” _Crowley spits out. Aziraphale frowns, and takes a sip of her own drink before kneeling on the floor in front of the demon, tucking her skirt beneath her knees. She places her hands gently on Crowley’s thighs.

“Please, my dear. Let me help y- let me take a look.”

Crowley shuts her eyes tight, sucks in a deep breath. “Angel…” she says, her voice barely a whisper. They both know they can’t have this. And she – she’s a _demon, _she doesn’t deserve it.

“Crowley. Please.”

Crowley sighs. “Okay,” she nods minutely. “okay, angel.”

With Crowley’s approval, Aziraphale moves her hands away from the demon’s thighs, and Crowley instantly mourns the loss of contact.

_God- Satan- Somebody, how pathetic, _she thinks bitterly to herself. _Is that all it takes? One little touch and I’m doomed?_

Aziraphale unlaces Crowley’s smart, polished brogues and pulls them off gently, apologising when Crowley winces as they rub against her soles. She peels off the socks, balling them up and placing them inside one of the empty shoes. It’s quiet- the only sound is that of Crowley’s laboured breathing. Aziraphale fears to say a word, like this silence is the only thing making all this acceptable. If she speaks, then she might break the little bubble they’ve created here – away from Heaven, away from Hell, away from anyone who would try to pull them apart.

She lifts Crowley’s feet gently into her lap, running a careful finger down the sides of them – a barely-there, feather-light touch that sends a shiver shooting straight up Crowley’s spine.

A miracle won’t heal this – the burns were caused by consecrated ground, an angel using holy powers on them will only make matters worse. Instead, she rolls the legs of Crowley’s trousers up to the ankles and miracles into existence a shallow tub of cool water. Crowley exhales sharply as her feet are placed into the tub, and Aziraphale fusses.

“Is it too cold, my dear?” she looks up at Crowley, blue eyes wide and vulnerable.

Crowley doesn’t trust herself to speak, just shakes her head almost imperceptibly. She lets the angel pat her feet dry with a fluffy pink towel and she tries not to think about John 13. The angel rubs a salve over the burns, _Aloe vera, _she says, _good for healing. _

Crowley’s hands are shaking with the urge to grab her sunglasses and shove them back on her face. This is – it’s _too much, _it’s not allowed, and it’s not enough. Had she ever been touched with this level of tenderness? She clamps her eyes shut, focuses on her breathing. _I can’t have this, I can’t have this, I can’t have this – _it plays on a loop in her mind. As much as she loves Aziraphale – and, she is beginning to suspect, as much as Aziraphale actually _likes _her in return – they can never have anything more than what they have right now. Aziraphale fears that Hell will destroy Crowley, but it isn’t Hell that Crowley is worried about. No – she can already justify her <strike>relationship</strike> _friendship _with the angel to them with some long, drawn-out story about tempting the opposition, seducing the enemy. Hell shouldn’t be a problem, but Heaven? Crowley remembers how harsh they could be up there; how cold they were. Heaven would destroy Aziraphale without a second thought.

Aziraphale has moved on to wrapping bandages around Crowley’s feet, humming a tune softly that as she works, and Crowley’s heart _aches _with love_, _and she hates it. It’s so unbelievably unfair that they could have so much more, but even this is pushing the limits of what they’re allowed. Later, it will probably make Crowley angry and she’ll take it out on her houseplants or drive even faster than usual down empty county roads through the night. Right now, though, she just feels tired of it all.

“There, all done.” Aziraphale’s voice shakes Crowley out of her thoughts, and she pats the demon’s feet gently before getting up from the floor and smoothing out her skirt. Crowley reaches forward to pick her sunglasses and put them back on.

“I suppose I shouldn’t say thank you?”

Aziraphale looks shocked. “Most certainly not! It’s my silly fault that you even got hurt in the first place. No, I should be thanking _you, _for getting me out of that situation and for – for saving the books.” If Aziraphale’s voice turns a bit dreamy at the end, well, neither of them pick up on it.

Crowley, uncomfortable for the levels of vulnerability they’re both showing, rubs the back of her neck awkwardly. “It was no trouble, really.”

“No trouble? Crowley, your feet were burnt!” Aziraphale frowns loudly [1].

Crowley waves a hand dismissively.

“You walked on _consecrated ground _for me.” Aziraphale’s tone is growing evermore incredulous.

_“I’d do it again.” _Crowley mumbles under her breath.

“What was that, my dear?”

“I said – I ought to be getting back to my flat.” Crowley goes to pull her shoes back on. “Temptations to plan, evil schemes to – well, scheme. You know how it is.”

“I –” Aziraphale falters, not quite sure what she’s supposed to say. She never knows, with Crowley, what counts as pushing too far. Sometimes when she asks her to stay, Crowley accepts the offer with enthusiasm and pours another drink. Other times she looks at Aziraphale as though she’s grown a second head, and leaves hastily.

She does offer out her elbow again when Crowley stands, however, and is relieved when the demon takes it. They walk back out to the Bentley slowly, but Crowley doesn’t seem to be in as much pain as before.

She does seem… _pensive, _though, and Aziraphale hopes she isn’t gearing up for another one of her naps.

Aziraphale follows her around to the driver’s side, opening the door for her. She tries to help her in but Crowley waves her off with a frustrated grumble. Before shutting the door, Aziraphale decides that she has to say something.

“Are you quite certain that you’ll be alright?”

Crowley sighs. “Yes, _mum_. Can I go now?”

Aziraphale restrains from rolling her eyes physically, but she does roll them mentally.

“You know I’d never make you stay. Just –”

“Yes?” Crowley taps her black nails against the steering wheel impatiently, but Aziraphale knows it’s just for show.

“Just – take care of yourself, my dear.” And with that, she closes the door and goes back into the shop to make a cup of tea.

(She doesn’t end up drinking the cup of tea. She never even gets as far as making it – for, you see, Crowley is not the only one who wants _so much more, _and the anger Aziraphale feels at the injustice of it all bubbles up inside of her. She never lets it overflow, not until she’s alone – it is then when an unfortunate teacup meets its untimely demise when the angel throws it against the wall with a frustrated cry, tears threatening to leak from her eyes.

So, she doesn’t have a cup of tea. She smashes the teacup against the wall and decides to open a bottle of expensive vintage wine and drink it straight from the bottle instead.).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Some may say it isn’t possible to frown loudly. These people haven’t met Aziraphale.


	4. i've been crossing all the lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short interlude that I thought was somewhat necessary before I post the following chapters. It's set at the bus stop after the ApocaWasn't, and then at the Ritz.

“I suppose I should get him to give me a lift back to the bookshop.”

“Aziraphale… it burnt down, remember?” Crowley certainly couldn’t forget the smoke that filled her lungs, the desperate fear that overcame her as she yelled out for her friend who she thought had been killed. She swore she could still smell the burning of all those books. She looked over at Aziraphale, who, above everything else, just looked really rather tired.

“You can stay at my place,” Crowley suggests tentatively. “If you like.” She’s suddenly very glad that Aziraphale can’t see her eyes and that it’s too dark for her to see the tremble in her hands. She just wants Aziraphale to stay close, to know that she’s alive and safe.

Aziraphale smooths her hands over her trousers nervously. “I really wouldn’t want to be any bother—”

“You wouldn’t be.” Crowley would be embarrassed about how quickly she replies, but – Aziraphale was _dead. _She was gone, and Crowley was on her own, and the world was ending. She figures she’s allowed to be a little bit desperate and clingy right now.

Aziraphale smiles at her gratefully. “if you’re sure it won’t be any trouble then I – I would appreciate it greatly.”

The bus rolls up to the bench, and Crowley saunters on. Aziraphale, to Crowley’s surprise, sits on the seat next to her rather than behind. Aziraphale exhales sharply before taking Crowley’s hand in hers – quickly, as though if she doesn’t do it fast, she’ll lose confidence and never do it at all.

Crowley freezes in place. _What. _Aziraphale’s hand is soft and warm in hers, which is cold and bony. She dares to glance over at Aziraphale, who is looking back at Crowley with wide eyes and a nervous smile on her face. She squeezes Crowley’s hand, and Crowley smiles back.

Then, Aziraphale starts to laugh. It starts as an anxious titter, then evolves into a giggle (that Crowley absolutely does _not _find adorable, shut up), which then turns into full-blown laughter when she sees Crowley’s befuddled expression. Her shoulders shake and her chest aches but she can’t stop, and Crowley can’t do much more but watch her in amusement and begin to chuckle along too.

“We –” Aziraphale finally attempts to valiantly spit out. “We didn’t do _anything.” _She leans on Crowley’s side. “The world was saved by a witch and a group of _children!” _

And Crowley can’t argue with that.

* * *

So, with the apocalypse nicely averted, Aziraphale and Crowley were glad to finally relax in the luxurious atmosphere of The Ritz.

Of course, they weren’t able to relax until they had _chofen their faces wisely, _but all things considered their scheme went off without a hitch. Crowley reaffirmed her deep-rooted hatred she felt towards the other angels (especially Gabriel, that smug bastard) and took great pleasure in being able to breathe fire at them. Meanwhile, Aziraphale found it rather amusing to adopt Crowley’s care-free attitude during her trial and found great amounts of joy in getting Michael to miracle her a towel.

After their “switcheroo” as Aziraphale calls it (much to Crowley’s dismay), they took a moment to get used to being in their own bodies again – Crowley wincing almost imperceptibly as the pain in her legs and her spine returns, Aziraphale squeezing her hand empathetically – before immediately deciding the best course of action was to get some decent food and to consume vast quantities of alcohol.

So, to the Ritz they went. Crowley didn’t eat much, – she never did, especially in public – instead stealing the occasional forkful of whatever Aziraphale had ordered and sipping at her champagne. Aziraphale indulged herself, closing her eyes in delight as she ate and wiggling in her seat contentedly. Neither of them seemed to be able to tear their eyes away from the other – something between them had broken like a dam destroyed in an earthquake, and now 6000 years of repressed desires were being set free and floating to the surface and surging forwards in a tidal wave.

“You know, my dear,” Aziraphale begins, dabbing at the side of her mouth with a cloth napkin. “I like to think that none of this would have worked out if you weren’t, at heart, a good person.” She smiles innocently at Crowley, but Crowley sees the mischievous glint in her eyes.

“And if _you_ weren’t, deep down, just enough of a bitch to be worth knowing.” Crowley leans back, swinging an arm over the back of her chair and smirks at the way Aziraphale smiles with sheepish pride. Crowley holds out her glass. “To the world.”

“To the _world.” _Aziraphale clinks her glass against Crowley’s, and they let themselves bask in the bright freedoms the future held. Both had plenty they wished to say to one another, and plenty they wanted to do, but all of it could wait. They had time – they had waited 6000 years; they can wait a little longer. Until the end of their meal, at least. No point in rushing.

Aziraphale takes in the way Crowley is looking at her, all of her attention focused on the angel.

Aziraphale has never claimed to be patient, so she calls for the bill.

She thinks that they’ve waited long enough, thank you very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not too happy about this chapter lol maybe i'll come back and change it at some point idk


	5. you and me got plenty of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world didn't end. Our celestial lesbians go back to Crowley's flat.

Aziraphale could count the times she had visited Crowley’s flat on one hand. It made sense that Crowley was more often around the bookshop – after all, it is she who owns a car, so logically it makes sense that the shop is their more frequent meeting place. Still, the few times Aziraphale has gone over for whatever reason she couldn’t help but think that Crowley was somewhat uncomfortable – perhaps even embarrassed – with having Aziraphale in her property.

Crowley seems especially nervous now as she leads Aziraphale up the building. She was nervous on the bus, legs bopping up and down uncontrollably, and now she’s rambling about Go- Sa- _Someone _knows what, talking a hundred miles an hour and waving her hands around wildly as she does so. Aziraphale doesn’t blame her – after everything that has happened this week, she would say that they’re both well within their rights to be full of pent-up anxious energy. The world was supposed to end today, for Someone’s sake! It was saved, of course, but Aziraphale can’t help but to still feel rather apprehensive about the whole ordeal, especially with Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy playing on repeat in her mind – it sounds just a little bit too good to be true.

Crowley takes off her glasses almost as soon as she enters her flat, and Aziraphale follows her all the way to the sleek, modern kitchen, in which Crowley leans against the counter with a false sense of casualness and asks if Aziraphale wants some tea. Aziraphale asks if she perhaps has anything stronger, and Crowley’s answering grin shows off a lot of her sharp teeth. 

“Angel,” she drawls, yellow eyes unblinking. “You are just full of good ideas.”

So, the two of them drape themselves over Crowley’s expensive couch and make an impressive dent in her collection of booze, a Fleetwood Mac album playing quietly on Crowley’s vintage record player blending with the background noise of the traffic from outside.

“Sssay it again,” Crowley leans forward, her wine threatening to splash out of her glass as she does so.

“When all is said and done, you must,” Aziraphale hiccups loudly. “You must _choofe _your faces wisely – for soon enough ye shall be – ye shall be playing with fire.” Crowley blows a very long raspberry.

“What doesss it mean? What doesss it all mean?” Crowley flops back on the couch dramatically, one hand flopped across her head.

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully and takes a long sip of her drink. “I think,” she says wisely, “That it might be a metaphor.”

Crowley nods sagely in agreement.

“Then what doesss it mean met-metama-metamaphoric- what doess it represssent?”

Aziraphale shrugs. Crowley purses her lip and scrunches up her forehead in thought for a moment. Stevie Nicks continued to crone in the background:

_You touched my hand, I played it cool, and you reached out your hand to me._

“Hellfire!” Crowley suddenly exclaims, jumping up and this time actually spilling her drink. Aziraphale blinks.

“What?”

“That’sss what Agnes is talking about – _hellfire!” _She stumbles into the coffee table in her enthusiasm. “She’s telling us to watch out!”

Aziraphale splutters. “Watch out? Why – _oh. _They’re going to come after us.” She sobers up somewhat at the thought, and Crowley goes silent.

“What are we going to _do?_” Crowley asks, somewhat desperately. She sits back down next to Aziraphale, her eyes wide and full of concern. Aziraphale looks at her, and is glad she is seated. For if she were standing, she thinks she would be knocked over by the amount of trust Crowley is putting in her. When all appears to be lost, Crowley is turning to _her _for answers. It’s a bit overwhelming, to be honest, and she’s glad she’s rather intoxicated because she doubts that her sober self would be able to deal with the entire gravity of the situation.

“I don’t know, my dear.” Her voice is heavy with something that Crowley cannot quite decipher. “Let’s – let’s figure it out tomorrow, okay?”

Crowley sighs. She sounds as tired as Aziraphale feels. “Okay, angel. Okay.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand like she did on the bus, and Crowley looks just as surprised as she did the first time.

_You touched my hand and you smiled_ _, all the way back you held out your hand. _

This time, however, Crowley is the one to hold tighter, clutching to Aziraphale’s hand as though she was trying to meld it with her own. And whether it’s the alcohol, or whether it’s the leftover adrenaline from the ApocaWasn’t, or whether it’s a little bit of both, or whether it’s a neither and just her own confidence – she leans forward, wraps her arms around the angel, and buries her face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale freezes at first, but then relaxes and wraps her own arms around Crowley.

_If I hope and if I pray, ooh it might work out someday. _

Crowley breathes in, taking in the scent of chocolate and books that seems to always come from Aziraphale. She buries her fingers in the soft wool of Aziraphale’s sweater and tries not to think about how much she will regret this when she’s sober.

Aziraphale is in a similar predicament. Her eyes are squeezed shut and she is trying valiantly not to cry out of sheer _tiredness. _She holds on tighter, rubs Crowley’s back, and breathes in deep. The scent of burning and cinnamon and Crowley’s expensive perfume is comforting and familiar, and if Aziraphale was sober she thinks that maybe the familiarity would be somewhat terrifying.

For now, though, they both ignore the fact that the world almost ended that day, and they ignore the fact that they’re physically closer than they’ve been in 6000 years, and they ignore Agnes Nutter’s prophecy, and they do nothing more than hold each other and continue to breathe.

_If I live to see the seven wonders_ _, I'll make a path to the rainbow's end, I'll never live to match the beauty again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song they're listening to is seven wonders by fleetwood mac. title is from hold me by fleetwood mac.


	6. your swagger and your bearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that she was English, that she was intelligent, and that she was gayer than Ellen Page driving a Subaru in July.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. i love aziraphale flouncing around in floofy tartan dresses as much as the next genderless gal. but have we considered: butch aziraphale?? ur welcome. 
> 
> title is from 'ring of keys' from the musical fun home bc that's what heavily influenced this lmao

Many assume that Aziraphale is ignorant to the world around her and naïve to how her gender expression plays a role in how she is treated.

She knows that even Crowley thinks she is oblivious, sometimes, to the stares and the comments.

But Aziraphale has been on this earth for over 6000 years, and she is very intelligent, and although she can be a bit oblivious and even ditzy at times, she isn’t a fool. She knows very well what people say of her, and how they look at her, and how they treat her differently from others.

Crowley spends hours ranting about the injustice of it all, pacing back and forth as she waves her hands about rambling about feminism and gender roles and misogyny and the entitlement of men, and Aziraphale will sit and listen, nodding in all the right places.

“I just don’t _get it,” _Crowley snaps one day. “How can you be so _calm?” _

And it makes sense – Crowley has always worn her heart on her sleeve, never ashamed of _feeling, _so loud and open. When she is angry, she lets the whole world know, slamming doors and hissing venom, cursing anyone who dares tell her to calm down. When she is angry she lets her rage burn and burn, hotter and hotter, and every man that calls her “feisty”, and every man that says “you’re cute when you’re annoyed”, and every man that asks if it’s “that time of the month” adds kindling to the fire as she burns and burns. When she is angry, _truly _angry (which isn’t as often as one might think), her fury is so visible, and Aziraphale admires it, she really does, but it makes sense that she cannot see the same anger when it resides in Aziraphale.

Because the anger is there, of course. She has just never been as… _vocal _about it.

Instead, she carries it with her everywhere, a low buzz of irritation that makes her skin tingle as she goes on with her everyday life. She distracts herself from the anger with other things, like her books and her food and her walks around the park, but even those are tainted some days. She’ll be on the 78th reread of one of her favourite novels and spot an especially misogynistic line for the very first time that will stick in her head all week (especially as she had _known _that author, they had been friends, did her really think that of women?), or the waiter will raise a judgemental eyebrow when she orders a large dessert, or a stranger will whistle as she bends down to pick up a bit of litter on one of her walks.

Aziraphale ignores it all, or at least, she pretends to ignore it. More often than not, she’ll send a little wave of miraculous misfortune towards the perpetrators, so that a catcaller may take a bite of their cake only to realise all too late that a wasp sat there, only finding out when it stings their tongue – or, perhaps a stranger at the bus-stop who got just a bit too handsy for Aziraphale’s liking may find that all of his loose change has been replaced with literal peanuts, and his bank cards all turned into business cards for a local dog-grooming company.

Aziraphale may be kind, but she has never been spineless.

Another thing she has realised is that it doesn’t matter all that much how she presents herself to the world – no matter how she dresses, how she styles her hair, how she acts, there will always be people who will think that she is somehow incorrectly female.

In the past, she has been mostly very feminine in her appearance. She wore puffy dresses and flowy skirts and grew her hair long. She wore corsets that would have made it difficult to breathe, if it was necessary for her to do such a thing. She was always behind on the trends of the time, she was never considered especially _fashionable, _but she didn’t mind this all that much. She liked to be well-dressed, though – even if her clothes weren’t trendy, she always looked well put-together, and she carried herself with a sort of quiet confidence that unintentionally attracted the attention of quite a few individuals.

Even this, she didn’t particularly mind. She didn’t like to think about her appearance all that much – not because she disliked how she looked, but more because she valued other things about herself more. A compliment on one’s appearance, she thought, didn’t compare in the slightest to a compliment on one’s personality or achievements. Still, she was trying to blend in with the humans, and humans held compliments about their beauty in such high regard! So she blushed when men brushed their lips to her hands in greeting, and smiled with fake coquettishness when they commented on her looks.

She had plenty of admirers over the years.

None of the male ones tended to admire her for very long, however, once they found out just how much of a _bitch_ she could be.

(Coincidentally, the word “bitch” was a word that neither Aziraphale nor Crowley ever used to describe anyone except for each other and themselves).

Once they actually got to know her past her blonde hair and her curves, she had a tendency to scare them off with all of her, _gasp, _opinions! She was never afraid to vocalise what she thought of political decisions and the like, and she had the audacity to be incredibly well-read – a man, she quickly discovers, hates it when he realises that he isn’t the smartest in the room, especially when the actual smartest in the room happens to be a woman (oh, the horror!). She has had plenty of people tell her that she’ll _never _get a husband the way she behaves, and that really, as a lady she was just far too _emotional _to weigh in on any important decisions, and maybe it would be better if she just kept her pretty little mouth shut?

Well, Aziraphale thought. Fuck that.

Society thought she was too much of a woman to be intelligent. Fine. Whatever. She never held much attachment to the idea of being excessively feminine – when it became more acceptable for women to dress more androgynously, she traded the skirts and the ruffles for trousers and button-up shirts, the heels for chunky loafers and comfortable leather boots. She even cut her hair – she could have always miracled it short, but there was something cathartic about the _snip, snip, snip _of the scissors and watching curl after blonde curl fall to the floor.

(When Crowley came over and saw Aziraphale’s new short hairstyle, she made a pained noise and clutched her chest as she fell back dramatically.

“_Aziraphale,” _she hissed, “What have you _done _to your gorge- to your _hair!” _

Aziraphale ran a hand through the short locks. At this length, they seemed even curlier than before.

“I cut it.” She stuck her chin out defiantly. “Forgive me for not asking for your permission first, my dear.” Her words were sharp, and she sounded annoyed.

Crowley put her hands up in mock surrender. “Woah, I’m sorry, it looks great, you look great, it just – took me by surprise, is all.” She took off her sunglasses and stepped forward to look closer. “Honestly, angel, it suits you.”)

But still, she found she was somehow being a woman incorrectly. Mothers would glare at her and pull their children away, young men would still look her up and down – instead of being something to lust after, however, she was now something to laugh at. She didn’t care. Let them laugh – at least she knew exactly who she was - a fat, outspoken bulldyke, who had absolutely no plans of changing her ways, despite all the comments like _you’d look so much prettier with long hair, _despite all the stares. This was who she was (for now, at least).

She had once believed that when she looked more feminine, people treated her with more kindness. But she knew better now – it wasn’t kindness, it was objectification. At least when she is butch people are a lot more honest with their intentions when they speak to her.

Besides – for every ten assholes that she interacts with, there’s one young girl who looks up and sees this woman, this woman who isn’t beautiful but _handsome,_ and wears her bowties and tailored trousers and short hair with confidence and a natural ease, and this young girl thinks that maybe, just _maybe, _she isn’t so abnormal after all.

If Aziraphale can help just one girl realise that there’s no wrong way to be a woman, well, that makes the 6000 years of dealing with misogynistic bullshit almost bearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter summed up is basically *watches nanette by hannah gadsby once* 
> 
> i will write a chapter like this from crowley's perspective eventually but the idea of butch aziraphale took control of my entire life and i couldn't do anything until i wrote this


	7. up on a pedestal/down on your knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Womanhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one Margaret Atwood quote possessed me and made me write this.

Crowley, to put it simply, is sexy.

Crowley _knows _she is sexy – she knows that the way she walks (or rather, saunters) draws focus to her slender frame and her long legs, knows that the way she habitually flicks her red hair over her shoulder draws attention to her high cheekbones. She knows that her body – tall and slim – is one that is currently _en vogue_ (it hasn’t always been – it’s sick, but women’s body types seem to go in and out of fashion like they’re accessories), knows that the designer, form-fitting clothes she wears do nothing to alleviate the attention she garners. No. She _knows _she is sexy, and most of the time, she quite enjoys the fact.

Besides, it’s not like she has much choice.

Most of the time she’s not even trying to be sexy – she’s just trying to live. But even at her ugliest, she finds herself being watched (_observed)_ by people. Walking down to the 24-hour Tesco Express down the street at 11.30 in her stained joggers and dirty hoodie, hair in a bun that is well past the point of artfully-messy and peppercorns stuck in her teeth to get some emergency popcorn has the same effect on people as waltzing around the streets of London in dresses that cling to her body with her red hair in catalogue-ready waves cascading down her back does. It doesn’t matter much what she wears – she will always be sexy to someone, whether she likes it or not.

At first, she thinks it’s just a demon thing. She is the OG temptress after all – it would make sense if she had _something _innate about her that caused people to stumble over themselves no matter what she looked like. But this theory – it’s flawed, for multiple reasons. For one thing, she very rarely uses her sexuality to tempt humans into sin. She knows of demons and humans alike who have utilised the sexual desires of others in order to get what they want, and as much as she respects that way of doing business, she much prefers to manipulate people in other ways (like playing on their desire for knowledge, or feeding into the very human problem that is road rage with her stroke of demonic genius that was the M25). Point is – she may be _the _temptress, but she tends to tempt people into eating fruit and stealing traffic signs rather than tempting them into sexual acts. If Hell had decided to gift her with irresistible allure to aid her with her temptations, then she thinks that that would be a bit of a waste as her skillset lay elsewhere.

The theory is also flawed in that Crowley has seen completely human women have the same effect on people – even when these human women are looking decidedly unsexy, in comfy clothing or with a child hanging on to their arm or in a work uniform looking tired after a long shift, even then, they still get the _looks, _the whispers still follow them.

So, the problem wasn’t occult intervention.

The problem was just… men.

No, that’s not entirely true, thinks Crowley. Sure, men may be the bigger perpetrators of catcalling and stares that they’re not even trying to be subtle about, but women also seem to contribute to the looks and the comments that seem to follow Crowley like a bad smell. _Did you see how she was dressed? _They say, under their breaths to their friends, just loud enough for Crowley to hear. _No self-respect, imagine being married to _that? _Such a slut, and the way she acts – what a bitch, what a tease, what a whore. _It’s the same when she’s ugly – _put some effort in…such a slob…should act more like a woman…could be so pretty if she just put in the effort._

It makes Crowley want to scream a little bit. _What do you want me to do! _When she puts time and effort into her appearance, she’s a slut, when she doesn’t, she’s a lazy slob. She hates the way society (read: the patriarchy) has made it so women see each other as competition first and allies second, hates that they can’t see how it doesn’t _matter, _none of it matters! Having a thin body, having clear skin, having a flat stomach, a big butt – none of it fucking _matters,_ not when human lives are so _short _(Crowley wonders; how much of their limited time on earth do they spend worrying about their hair, their tummies, the shape of their noses? How many collective hours have been spent by women crying about their appearance?) and female body types go in and out of style every decade or so. None of matters, it really doesn’t, not when everything a woman does is run by a male fantasy anyway. _Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy. _Damn it all. Crowley wants to scream.

The problem isn’t men, except it kind of _is, _because it’s men who created these ideals, and it’s the fantasies of men that loom over everything, and its men who profit from the way women hate other women.

She doesn’t tend to get angry anymore, not like she used to (back when her anger resulted in forest fires and earthquakes). 6000 years of men only seeing her as an object that they can stick their dick into has left her tired.

(She sees the same tiredness in women and girls much younger than 6000 years old).

Back in the day, men who let their hands wander a bit too low for her liking and men who made unsavoury comments towards her and men who in general just acted in a way that would make any (human) woman feel unsafe would find themselves on the receiving end of a hellish miracle – their hands will catch aflame, or all their teeth would turn into spiders, or something along those lines. Nowadays, though – she’s more than used to it. She’s fed up – she doesn’t have the time or energy to react to every lingering hand that touches her, or to every whistle that follows her as she walks down the street. She’s _tired, _and she knows that some will say it’s better to ignore them anyway, but the truth is that it doesn’t matter - _you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it […] it’s all a male fantasy - _there’s no ‘right’ way to react – it’s a trap! Boom! She’s trapped in a male fantasy, no matter what she does! Nowadays there tends to be less fight within her when it comes to this sort of thing, and she just lets it go.

Aziraphale never lets it go – Aziraphale has always been righteous, sometimes to such an extent that it drives Crowley insane, and when somebody says something to Crowley with Aziraphale present the angel has always rushed to Crowley’s defence, like a knight in shining tartan (Crowley, of course, jumps to Aziraphale’s defence just as quickly when she is the victim). Crowley kind of wants to tell Aziraphale to just leave it well enough alone, that it isn’t worth the effort, but last time she said something along the lines of “stop it” to her Aziraphale went off on one of her tirades bout how Crowley absolutely _was _worth the effort, how she shouldn’t just sit there and let this thing slide, _don’t you know you deserve better, my dear?_

Oh, Aziraphale. Aziraphale, _Aziraphale. _At night Crowley will say the name over and over again, twisting the syllables over her forked tongue with a reverence she only allows herself under the security of the dark the night brings. _Aziraphale. _She’s a woman in a completely different way to how Crowley is a woman – she’s soft and light and fluffy (the comparison to strawberry-flavoured Angel’s Delight pops into Crowley’s mind and sticks around long enough to make her chuckle), but many don’t expect that from looking at her these days. They used to, when she wore flouncy skirts and dresses with a lot of lace and chiffon, but nowadays society seems to think her more masculine appearance means that she is tough and harsh and mean, even though she’s _not. _Aziraphale has a tendency to say the wrong thing sometimes, and she can be insensitive, but she never _means _to be – she’s not mean-spirited, not in the slightest, and Crowley really does not understand how people can see anything other than the introverted, nerdy, old-fashioned angel that she knows <strike>and loves.</strike>

Crowley, though – she’s the opposite, she thinks. She changes her appearance more often than Aziraphale does, but most of the time she embraces femininity whole-heartedly. She likes the way her hair feels when it’s long, and she enjoys being able to style it in endless different ways – braids are tricky but _fun, _and she’s gotten pretty good at them over the years. She finds men’s clothing rather dull and limited compared to the dresses and skirts and accessories she finds in the women’s section of stores - women’s fashion allows her to reinvent herself every day if she chooses. She likes being the aesthetic antithesis of Aziraphale – where Aziraphale favours light, muted pastel colours, Crowley prefers black and dark greys and deep reds. Where Aziraphale is made up of soft curves and a gentle roundness that Crowley adores, Crowley is made up of sharp angles and bony features. Aziraphale’s short hair leaves her features open, whereas Crowley opts to mask herself behind her hair and her make-up and her oversized designer sunglasses, creating an aura of mystery about herself. Crowley, always one for the dramatics, quite enjoys the visual effect the two of them create when they’re together – the comments they get along the lines of “I suppose there’s no question about who the man in the relationship is, then” she likes less. For one thing, _they’re not in a relationship_ (no matter how much she may wish wasn’t the case). For another, she finds it ridiculous that just because Aziraphale has short hair and wears trousers and bowties that automatically makes her “the man”. It makes no sense! Besides, for the most part, _neither _of them is male. Crowley is very tired of how cishets cannot seem to wrap their little minds around a relationship that doesn’t involve a man. They don’t understand women who don’t act like women should act – Crowley looks extremely feminine but acts rude, Aziraphale looks more masculine but acts kind. Their appearances are incongruous to the stereotypes and outdated gender roles humans have stuck in their minds, so they assign new roles to them both that don’t make any sense.

What_ever. _It’s not like Crowley cares.

She _doesn’t. _

She doesn’t care, but maybe it _slightly _bothers her _just a little bit _that people she doesn’t know will eye her up like she’s a nothing more than a bit of meat, and _maybe _it makes her a _tiny bit uncomfortable _when she’s walking through Soho at night and a stranger decides to follow her and yell unsolicited comments towards her, and it _possibly _makes her _somewhat _upset that people expect things from her just because she chooses to dress a certain way sometimes.

But she doesn’t _care. _It would be stupid to care – it would be stupid to let it get to her, to be _scared, _when she knows she’s more powerful than any human she meets. Nobody can do anything to her – she’s _occult, _she can do the impossible, so why, _why does she care so goddamn much? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh im rly into the idea of aziraphale n crowley experiencing womanhood very differently but ultimately understanding each others experiences. also high femme!crowley anybody??? unapologetically girly crowley??? yay or nay what do we think whats the verdict here.


End file.
